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(The lines are 4/6/8/10/8/6/4.) A Sunday never-morning The flannel shirt that she will never wear -- the she that will never be brought home after alcohol, just the promise of a subtitled Euro film -- is laundered and buttoned on the hanger. The flannel shirt that she will never wear -- the she that will be completely naked underneath; so short in stature that her bush is more than covered -- will only know the form of his body. The flannel shirt that she will never wear -- the she who will never spill a morning espresso on it, causing her to chuck it and expose her breasts -- will be washed once a week if worn or not. The flannel shirt that is on the hanger, that is to be worn just by him, that is to be laundered on strict schedule, is starting to fray on the cuffs, reflecting his Sunday never-morning.
I spent three weeks in Peterborough, Cambridgeshire, UK, in 2004. It is one of the few times in the 8+ year period I have been REALLY happy. The form is syllabic Cameo, at least I hope it is: 2, 5, 8, 3, 8, 7, 2. English windows are opposed to the ones in America. The sun drenched garden room at Butterfly Inn had such tender panes; I was afraid. English desk clerks can be best understood when you are tipsy, certainly when they are from Liverpool. Those young, hot English waiters are best straight. I say that because they ask you to help them avoid girls they do not like. Even if you are gay you can slip your arm around their waist to help. English youth at the dance club segregate themselves by sexes: but a girl half my age came and rubbed herself against my thigh; the music had stopped. Dark hair went well past her broad shoulders, framing ample bosoms. She never told me her name and neither did I ever ask it: she was so drunk. English lads at the dance club worry about your absence and ask around, "Where's the gay American guest?" They ask this while you are in the loo. Young, straight lads who ask questions and then see you, put their arms on your shoulders, and if they are 19 and drunk, they still smile and dance, knowing you're gay. I don't remember his name, nor do I remember the name of the club. I just wish that I had kissed him (as well as the other 3) straightly! 8 years of absence and you are still with me. England, we both reek and rot of wretched Empire! But I want to remember all their names - to dream.
(If this should have more properly gone into Workshop, forgive me. The tritina form, 10 syllables per line, unmetered, with the 3 end-words being anagrams. Just a for fun poem, no deep philosophy nor personal confession here. I just can't write a sestina! And I took Dave's advice and laid off the archaic.) Earliest chemical evidence of barley beer found in iran I drink but little, call it but barely. I drink but little, but only barley; Too much of it will just make me bleary. I must not be manly if I'm bleary, And my wallet impacted but barely, From drinking but little of the barley. You could be five thousand years old, barley. How many others have you made bleary? How many others drink you but barely? But barely of barley and I'm bleary! (Damn, that should have been "An anagrammatic tritina" in the title.)